


Without You There's No Plan

by liseuse



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liseuse/pseuds/liseuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Natasha are badass, in Kiev.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You There's No Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> The violence in here is at the movie level, and only briefly described, but please take care.  
> There is brief discussion of the aftermath of both Clint and Natasha's experience in the field, including minor PTSD. 
> 
> This started as a mini-drabble for [such_heights](http://such-heights.dreamwidth.org/)'s [Avengers Kissing Meme](http://such-heights.dreamwidth.org/390500.html). I intended to merely tidy it up. And then it grew. A lot.
> 
> The translation is all mine. And by "all mine" I mean "entirely Google's", so "Bude t’a to mrziet’" should translate, roughly, to "You'll be sorry!" 
> 
> All my thanks go to my beta, [raanve](http://raanve.dreamwidth.org). All remaining mistakes are mine, and mine alone.
> 
> The title comes from Civet's All I Want - [video here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XbLq2lMIifQ) \- youtube link.

It isn’t often that Clint gets sent on the deep infiltration spy gigs these days. They seem to have more use for him on rooftops and watching from a distance lately. But, right now he is in a tuxedo, dancing with Natasha in the American Embassy in Kiev. They’ve been in Ukraine for two months, playing the part of second-generation Americans with (long dead, long mourned) Russian parents, and a lot of money to burn. Natasha’s running the show. Of course she is. She’s organising everything, and scaring the backup team by knowing more intel in three days than they’d found in months. Clint is, basically, along for the ride. He’s the charming husband, with the spine of steel and the dangerous glint in his eyes. Just enough new-American to not mind being second-fiddle to his wife, and just enough bravado to occasionally slip the leash. 

It’s been oddly fun. Clint and Natasha became Ruslan and Alyana, concocted backstories with Coulson during late-night briefing sessions. They flew into Ukraine, did some sightseeing to let themselves be seen in all the right places, and pulled on some old _family_ favours. Alyana and Ruslan are playing around with the idea of setting up a satellite of their company, which Clint cannot really believe is called RusYana, and holidaying at the same time. Clint thinks he likes Ruslan, or who Ruslan is turning into. Natasha as Alyana is playing to all of her strengths. They’ve wrangled enough dinner invitations and friendly tips to last them the next eighteen jobs, and Clint thinks Natasha might be eyeing up a new safehouse. Kiev has changed a little since the last time he was there, but it’s still a beautiful city. And the American Embassy still knows how to throw a party. Ruslan gets to take part in this one, which Clint thinks makes a change. The last party he attended at this Embassy he was hiding, and wishing they’d all stop drinking champagne and flirting and that the mark would make himself fucking known.

But Ruslan and Alyana are favoured guests, thanks to family connections and some nicely dropped hints. The company they own specializes in the manufacturing of high-end, nigh indestructible, telecommunication software, and the marketing makes it abundantly clear that they’re designed for war and espionage uses, not the domestic market. They’re after Branimir Holič, a Slovenian citizen, involved in small-time organized crime, and, lately, the acquisition and distribution of wireless technology for IEDs. Coulson had tapped the file with one finger and carefully noted that they would prefer Holič embarrassed and a little remorseful, but preferably not dead. Unless dead was the only way they’d managed to get the encrypted supply data away from him. Natasha had quirked an eyebrow at Coulson and asked how Holič had made the transition from what was effectively petty thievery to legitimated murder. Coulson hadn’t answered, and Clint knew Natasha was doing some digging about that on the side. 

Natasha is wearing her favourite Dinner-And-Dancing-At-The-Embassy dress. It’s black, curve skimming, and forgiving enough that she can wear a thigh-holster and no one will know. It’s a miracle of engineering, and it has removable boning. She’s smiling gently, her head resting on Clint’s shoulder and the pearl earrings are reflecting the light from the chandeliers around the room. To an outsider she looks beautiful, peaceful and in love. Clint can feel her watching the room, knows she has a knife tucked into the boning of the dress, a revolver in the thigh-holster and that the thigh he has bracketed with his, as he dips her down so she can look at the balcony, could kill a man in seconds. 

He brings her back up, twirls them round, and then flourishing, dips her again in time to the music. He’s playing this part as a little over-exuberant, it seems to be going down well. They have new money, new car, new attitude and new names. He can have a new personality for a while. “There are two snipers on the balcony,” he mutters into her ear, and she nods. 

“There’s one at the doorway as well, he’s hiding a gun under the champagne tray. Not very well.” Natasha sounds put out at the lack of effort the marksman is putting into his job. 

“Well, in that case, shall we split?” Clint slides his hand up her back, splaying his fingers open -- their signal for “you left, me right, meet you in the hotel” -- and Natasha slides her hand up his back in an answer. The music comes to an end, and Clint draws Natasha in for a kiss, slides the memory chip over on his tongue and twirls her out of his grip.

She finishes the spin, and smiles her way across the dancefloor towards the door. Clint watches her go, and gives a half bow as she turns round to kiss the back of her hand at him _you balcony, me doorway_ and then turns so he can see the grand staircase. His journey across to the stairs is impeded by various ambassadors and ambassador’s wives, but finally he makes it to the foot of the stairs. He can see the snipers, in their ill-fitting suits, and mentally grinds his teeth at the slight foot tapping the one on the right is doing. If people are going to try and kill him, it would be nice if they did it with some professionalism. He isn’t planning on killing them; they strike him as being badly paid, temporary, hired muscle. Proper killers on permanent contracts tend to get better suits, in his experience. Killing them is just going to make him feel bad, and it won’t hit their employer where it hurts anyway. Snipers are ten a penny. 

“I’m sorry, but do you know where the restroom is?” Clint asks in his very best Ukrainian. It isn’t that bad, although Natasha does always make a face when she hears him practicing. Luckily one of the advantages of the “children of first-generation immigrants” is the handy “oh, we had a strictly English speaking only home” excuse. Natasha’s Ukrainian is good enough for the both of them anyway. The sniper turns in surprise, and Clint internally rolls his eyes, he’d made as much noise as an elephant coming up those stairs, and then he clocks him round the head. “Sorry, dude,” he whispers and carefully pulls him back into the shadows of the curtains on the other side of the hallway. The other sniper is at the far end of the hallway, and he seems a little more focused on the task at hand, but he hasn’t realised either that Clint is no longer on the dancefloor, so he doesn’t struggle when Clint pulls a chloroformed handkerchief out and waits for him to fall unconscious. 

There’s a nagging thought at the back of Clint’s mind telling him that it was all too easy, and that there should be more muscle and a hell of a lot more danger somewhere around. Which is, of course, when the chandelier drops from the ceiling, the windows explode and a round of automatic gunfire is heard. 

Clint looks over the handrail, and can see Natasha spinning over the dancefloor. Her dress is intact, and he can tell from here that the gun she’s holding was previously owned by the champagne waiter. It isn’t hers, and the flexing of her forearm muscle tells him she’s adjusting for the unfamiliar weight. If he had to guess he’d say it was a Windicator, and if it is he’s going to be listening to her complain about it for the next eight years. She’s keeping the gun out of the sight of the remaining innocent bystanders with the folds of dress’s skirt. And, God, Clint thinks, he could watch her fight all day. She’s hypnotizing as she carefully takes people out, causing the minimum of fuss and uproar. He’s seen her take out marks in crowded bars, made it look like the alcohol caught up on them and they’re suddenly drop-down drunk. He came back from the first attempt at seizing her with a broken rib, a black eye and only the vaguest idea how she’d managed it. Sitwell had mocked him for months, and then changed his tune in three seconds when he ended up being Clint’s eyes on the ground for the third attempt. 

She looks up, and catches his eye, then carefully lifts her hand to her hairclip _you, down here now. Get the mark_ before launching herself off the band’s platform and landing with her thighs around the Latverian ambassador’s neck. Coulson is going to be so fucking pissed off, Clint thinks before jumping over the handrail and into the fray. He’s never going to be as graceful as Natasha, he can’t make taking people down look like a section of a ballet, but he takes pride in not making his efforts too obtrusive. He has a lifetime’s experience of throwing himself off high places and landing cleanly, and as quietly as possible, and he still enjoys the shriek people can’t help but make when he appears behind them. It’s why he likes New Agent season so much. They aren’t used to it. Plus, it still makes Coulson smile after all these years. He snags one of the gunmen, throwing them over his shoulder, and tying them to the sideboard. He kicks the gun out of the way, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He’ll shoot an automatic if he has to, but if guns are called for he’d rather have a handgun any day.

Someone has helpfully herded most of the guests out of the embassy, and he can see them through the main doors, waiting for cars to be brought round and gesturing emphatically. Sometimes he loves the sheer stoicism of Eastern Europeans. There’d be a lot more screaming if this was happening in the US. When it seems like everyone who is left in the room has their own reason for being there he pulls his own gun out of its holder, and wishes someone in R&D would come up with a way of concealing a bow and quiver under a dress suit. He hasn’t got anything against his gun, per se, but it doesn’t have the smooth satisfaction of the bow and arrow. He will admit, after he thumps the base against someone’s temple, that they have advantages in close combat. Natasha nudges against his elbow in a move that would be casual on anyone else, and slides so they’re back to back. “Holič is over by the palm tree,” he whispers in her ear as they turn, “but I think someone needs to take out the goon trying to hide behind the curtain.” Natasha grins, already sliding her knife out of the boning of her dress before leaping into action again. The goon goes down in one easy movement, and Clint grabs the mark, holding the gun to his throat. 

“Bude t’a to mrziet’,” he chokes out, and Clint can feel his heartbeat through the gun. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what everyone says,” Clint says and slips a hand into his pocket. “I’ll take that nice little data storage device, thanks.” Holič growls, and then swallows heavily as Clint presses the gun in a little closer. Clint feels him go slightly heavier in his arms, relaxing all his muscles infinitesimally, and he thanks his heavens that Nat made him practice responses to this for hours in the gym. He tightens his arm around the mark’s chest, and hooks a leg round his ankle, throwing him to the floor. “Thanks for buying from RusYana, by the way.” They land with Clint kneeling on top, gun still at Holič’s throat, and both of his hands pinned to the floor by Natasha’s shoes. She leans down and smiles sweetly and Holič brightens slightly, and Clint laughs internally. No one ever seems to learn that that smile means death and destruction. 

Natasha redistributes her weight, so the tips of her shoes dig into the mark’s palm. Clint hears bones crack, and shifts himself back so he’s sitting on Holič’s ankles. He rests just enough weight on them that the guy gets the message that he could crack them in a minute, and smiles tightly. The mark goes limp again, but this time it’s involuntary and Clint knows Natasha got him through the palms with the muscle relaxant. “I knew there was a reason you didn’t want to wear the Louboutins.”

Natasha grins, bright and terrifying, and raises an eyebrow. “They’re my good shoes. I don’t want to weaponize them. I might want to go dancing sometime.” She steps back from the mark’s hands, and slides the knife back into the boning of her dress. “We’ve got about five minutes before someone turns up to do some investigating. I suggest we move.”

They leave Holič trussed up like a chicken, and flung into a cupboard. Someone will find him eventually. Clint holds the heavy door of the embassy open for Natasha and she rolls her eyes at him, before stepping out into the chilly night. It’s the sort of thing he can get away with when they’re on jobs like this. It fits the persona just enough that Nat won’t actually kill him for it. He’s ready for a couple of particularly harrowing rounds in the ring when they get back to SHIELD though. In theory they could go straight back to the hotel, collect their stuff and get extracted right now. In practice they have a flight booked tomorrow afternoon and they’re out of the building with no one chasing them which means they haven’t blown their covers too badly, so they have an entire night and morning to themselves. Natasha guides them down to the river and they stand, watching the lights of the bridges reflect in the water. 

“I got three,” Natasha says after a while. “You?”

“None. Five injured, none permanently. Though some pride took a battering for a couple of them.” It took Clint months to realise that this wasn’t about bragging for Natasha – this need to count up tallies and add to totals. He’d figured it out on their first properly solo job together, when they were patching themselves up in a grubby hotel room, and Natasha had only just managed to climb back into her own head. She’d thought, carefully, and named a number and then straightened herself up and stitched his forehead back together. It was her way of keeping a track on what she had done. And given the low final total she gave him that day she’d obviously reset the totals when she’d started working for SHIELD. Clint has never had the same desire to know the whole number. He’s satisfied with knowing who, what and how in each particular job, but it helps Natasha so he tells her.

Clint tips his head to one side. “Was it a Windicator you stole from the champagne waiter?”

“Yes,” Natasha says grouchily. “Fucking things. The weight distribution’s all wrong.” She sniffs and taps her fingernails against the hidden holster. “German engineering, pfft. And now I have to dispose of it.”

“Just because you have an unnatural thing for Baikals,” Clint mocks. “Give it to Sitwell. He loves them.”

Natasha smiles faintly. “They have a nice even weight balance.” Her voice is a little prim, and Clint can tell she’s thinking about a version of her past. 

“You roll your eyes at me when I say the same thing about Lucille.” Clint can see the lights of police cars from the corner of his eye, and he knows Natasha has caught them as well. “I wonder how long it will take them to find Holič?”

“It should take them three sweeps of the building,” Natasha says thoughtfully. “According to the intel Sitwell got us, and the information I got, that cupboard is always locked. The locks are old and rusty. No one uses that cupboard. They’ll up the search when they realise he hasn’t got back to his hotel, presumably they’ll notice that the locks have been disturbed, and then he’s free.”

“And at three hours a search, a change of shift and a lack of interest on the part of the police we should be safely back in New York before they even think to run a list of guests. Though, given the inept snipers they had, it might take them four years to find him.” Clint yawns quietly. “Well, you’ll be in New York. I got a message saying I have to go to Lucerne.”

“Bastard,” Natasha says fondly. “I like Lucerne.” She turns and leans back on the railing. “And I only mock you about Lucille because you rise to the bait so easily.”

“Lucille and I have been through a lot together,” Clint puts all the mock-affront into his voice he can manage. He means it though. Lucille is his oldest bow, and she’s the trustiest. He likes the trick-shot bows well enough, but they seem flimsy and they don’t have the weight of a long history warming them in his hands. Lucille doesn’t get that many outings these days. He refuses to have her modified so she’ll take the sonic arrows, and she doesn’t collapse as quickly as she used to. He can’t bring himself to take her completely apart to find out why. These days he uses her for target practice more than he does in the field. 

“You and that bow,” Natasha yawns into her hand. “We should probably get back to the hotel.” She rolls her neck and winces as a bone cracks. Clint takes one last look at the lights on the river and pulls the chip-reader out of his pocket. Natasha hands him the chip, and he slides it in and waits for the blue light to flash. The chip ejects and Clint hands it back to Natasha. “What? I can’t take it on a domestic flight to Zurich. Fury’ll want to see it anyway.”

She looks like she wants to argue the point with him, but decides it isn’t really worth the effort, and slips her hand in the crook of his elbow so they look, for all the world, like a couple on a romantic nighttime walk. They reach the hotel and the doorman nods at them, and holds the door open. Natasha buries her face in Clint’s upper arm, and he knows she’s trying not to giggle, the exhaustion kicking in and the adrenaline wearing off a little. Displays of gallantry, even if they’re carefully calculated for monetary return, tend to tickle her sense of humour when she’s just finished a job. He runs a hand through her hair, and makes it look as if he’s steering her towards the elevator. She keeps her head turned towards his arm as they ride up, they’ve only done minimal interference with the security cameras in the hotel and she’s nothing if not cautious about where her face gets seen. Clint’s less worried about it. Natasha is stunning and he’s never entirely worked out how she slides into different persona as well as she does. He has it easier. He’s not going to deny his looks work a certain charm on people, but he isn’t stand-out-of-the-crowd gorgeous. Plus, he doesn’t do many jobs in Eastern Europe these days. 

“Come on, Alyana,” Clint says, and unlocks the door. It’s an actual lock, with a heavy metal key. No more, or less, safe than a swipe card, and a nice weight in his pocket. Natasha kicks her shoes off, and sighs as her feet sink into the carpet. “Shut up, Ruslan,” she says and undoes her dress. She steps out of it, leaving it in a pile on the floor and Clint swallows slightly at the sight of her in lacy black underwear with a gun strapped to each thigh. Sometimes it’s like working with a postergirl for the sleazier arms magazines.

“Warn a guy would you,” he says and throws his jacket over the back of the chair. He tugs his tie off gratefully, and then undoes his shirt. 

“But there’s no fun that way,” Natasha purrs and unclips the holsters from her stockings. She takes the guns out, runs her hand over her Baikal to check and then puts it on the bedside table. The Windicator just gets dropped tersely on top of the linen chest at the end of the bed. “And I do like to have fun after a job.”

“If you want to have fun, quit it with the sex kitten act,” Clint says and raises an eyebrow. “It might work on sleazy old men, but it gives me the heebiejeebies.”

Natasha huffs a laugh and unclasps her bra before slipping on an oversize t-shirt that Clint would swear was once his. “Got you.” She pads into the bathroom, and he can hear her sigh of relief as she takes her makeup off. He picks her dress up from the floor, and drapes it on top of his jacket, before moving her shoes so they won’t kill anyone in the morning. Then he steps out of his trousers and heads for the bathroom himself. They stand next to each other at the sink, brushing their teeth companionably and Natasha smiles at him sleepily in the mirror. 

It never, Clint thinks, gets less weird seeing Natasha slip from her persona on a job to her everyday one. He isn’t stupid enough to think that at least eighty-five percent of _Natasha_ isn’t persona by this point, but there are tells for when she’s relaxing back into her carefully constructed self. One of them is the little mouth-wrinkle to the side that she does. She refuses to believe she does it, which just makes it all the more hilarious. Coulson keeps trying to catch it on video, and Natasha keeps threatening to gut him if he keeps trying. Coulson doesn’t take the threat very seriously. Clint had pointed out to him one day that if Natasha ever inflicted all the pain on people that she threatens to do there wouldn’t be anyone left working at SHIELD. They haven’t told the rest of SHIELD that because it is just too fun watching Natasha fuck with them. 

The other tell is the sleepy smile Natasha gives him in front of mirrors whenever they finish this kind of job. The adrenaline is out of her system, the bone-crushing exhaustion has faded to regular sleepiness and she’s about ready to crash into bed, snuggle up under his arm for ten minutes and then sleep with her hand on the gun under her pillow. Everyone thinks they fuck when they’ve finished a job, and neither of them can be bothered to disabuse everyone of the notion. It makes them sound scarier – revelling in the blood and disorder, handcuffs and ropes and all the pain they can take. If they told them that what actually happens is sleepy tooth-brushing, a ten minute cuddle and then the sleep of those who have rightfully earned some fucking shuteye a whole load of notions would go flying out of the window. Coulson and Sitwell know, because they’ve sat watch in hotel rooms too many times, but they aren’t going to tell anyone either, because they’ve earned enough reputation from the sheer idea they might have watched the Hawk and the Black Widow fuck. 

Clint slips his hand up Natasha’s t-shirt, resting his palm in the small of her back. She leans back into his touch, and stands her toothbrush in the holder. He kisses the top of her head, and they sleepily plod out of the bathroom and sink down onto the bed. Natasha wriggles under the covers, and flings her arms out happily. Clint flicks the light off and slides in beside her. He hands her the gun from the bedside table, and she slides it under the pillow, making sure the safety is on. Then she tugs his arm so she can rest on it comfortably, and closes her eyes.

The light is streaming through the window when Clint wakes up the next morning, and he can hear Natasha talking on the phone in the bathroom. The TV is on, and he sees a picture of Holič on the screen, looking shamefaced and rumpled. Clint’s Ukrainian is nowhere near good enough to follow the news report, so he fumbles for his phone instead, and sees a message from Coulson. _Holič dealt with. Lucerne tickets in e-mail._ He sits up in bed, and scratches his stomach. “Hey, ‘Tash,” he calls out when he hears her finish her conversation, and she pokes her head around the doorway. “I fly this evening, want to go and look at that house in Podil again?”

She tips her head to the side, and nods quickly. “Sure, if you want.”

“Yeah, we can have a nice walk, get some food,” Clint says amiably. He knows she wants to go and look at that house more than anything, and he also knows that she knows he knows. But rule three in the Care and Handling of Natasha manual is to act at ease about things she wants to do, and never let on that you know she wants to do them. She still knows that you know she wants to, but this way she doesn’t have to admit it. They move round each other, getting dressed, with the ease of years of experience and then they are stepping out into the bright, warm day. You can tell something happened in the city as they near the American Embassy, but there are no signs of a major diplomatic incident having occurred. Clint’s willing to bet a reasonable sum that Holič is so embarrassed it will be months before he attempts retribution. And Ruslan and Alyana will be long gone before then, and their lives will have met the fictional end of a fictional car crash, with witness statements and mortuary reports to back it up. Their company will be investigated, begin to fold and then be quietly bought by an interested party.

“So, who are you going to be in Lucerne?” Natasha asks, as they walk down by the river. She has a copy of the paper in her hand, and she’s frowning at the crossword. 

“I don’t need to be anyone,” Clint says with a smile. “I’m on sniper duty this time. No need for an elaborate cover. Not seen, not heard.”

“Restful,” Natasha says. “I got a call this morning to say I’m going to Istanbul. I’m resurrecting Patricia.” 

She says the name as if it tastes funny, and Clint thinks back. Then he groans. “Oh, God. I hate Patricia.”

“Not as much as me,” Natasha grouches. “She wears florals.”

Natasha had ended up with Patricia when they’d needed to send her into a family dispute in Greece that involved an American school and a disobedient middle son. Patricia taught English, found ‘fun’ in everything and attempted to instill good wholesome values in her charges. Natasha had been lumbered with her because Caslowski’s agent had gotten into a fistfight with a mugger the day before the job was supposed to start and was sporting a black eye. Natasha had never really forgiven Caslowski for the cover-story, despite the fact it would have suited Agent Martin down to the ground. Clint had met Patricia once, when he’d been sent to do watch-duty in case anyone decided to take their frustrations out on a mild-mannered English teacher. Even watching her from a distance had set his teeth on edge – no one should be that chirpy, it was practically inhuman, and Natasha had been unbearable for weeks afterwards. 

“How long a job?” Clint asks, hoping it wasn’t going to be a long one. It took Natasha ages to snap out of personae she didn’t like. 

“A week or so,” Natasha says, “Patricia’s on holiday in Istanbul,” and then her eyes brighten as she spots the house. “Patricia wouldn’t buy this house.” She sounds gleeful and it’s true. Patricia would buy a house in a nice quiet suburb, and she’d have a garden. Natasha is going to buy this house, and the walls will be painted the same shade of creamy-grey as the walls of all her other safehouses, and she will decorate it with paintings by local artists and it will be a safe haven. Clint might even get a cup of coffee in this one, if she’s letting him see it. He knows the address of a couple of her others, but has never been inside, the vague location of two more and that one more exists. Natasha collects safe-houses like he collects bruises.

They look at the outside of the house for a little while longer, and then Natasha makes a call to get someone else to go and take a look at it for her. Clint imagines her walking down this road, a bag full of groceries swinging from her hand, and he smiles. 

“What?” Natasha says, when she’s finished her call. 

“I was imagining your future domestic bliss,” Clint says and smiles sunnily as she frowns slightly at him. He spies a café with outside tables, and they head for the table with the clearest sightlines. There’s no point getting sloppy when you think a job is in the bag. That’s how people end up spending three weeks in medical. They sip coffee, eat varenky and keep an eye on the streetcorners. There’s a television playing in the background, and the shots from the Embassy are beautifully blurry. Clint recognises the embarrassed security official who is trying to make excuses for them. He wants to send a text message to Nahm, congratulating her on her success, but he’s probably not supposed to know who did the hacking. He’ll fistbump her when he gets back, and watch her work out why. 

Natasha is keeping an eye on the screen, looking for anything that might incriminate her. “Nahm is really good,” she says when the security cameras pan across the room and nothing can be seen but fuzz, and the palm trees in the corner. 

She drives him to the airport, her hair dyed the most boring shade of brown in the world, and pats him on the ass with a wink as she says goodbye. “Say hello to Lucerne for me,” she says. “I’ll send you a postcard from Istanbul.”

She won’t. She always says she’ll send them, and then she never does. And if he ever gets a postcard then he isn’t going to know what to do with himself. He knows she has postcards ready to go from all the major places she might be sent, and everywhere new she goes she arranges for a postcard to be ready to sent. They’ll get sent when she dies. Clint thinks she tells him she’ll send a postcard because naming her fears means they’re out in the open and nothing will happen to her. 

“I’ll bring you some chocolate,” Clint says as he grabs his bag from the backseat of the car. “And yes, it’ll be the good stuff.” It will, because he remembers the retribution she inflicted on him when he came back from Paris once with chocolate he bought in the duty-free shop. Natasha grins at him, and waves as he disappears into the airport. He can see the beat-up brown car disappear into the distance, and then he shoulders his bag and heads for the departure gate for the first of his flights.


End file.
